If I Call You Pretty
by AnnieMJ
Summary: Every moment is a moment to regret when you're not content. The only escape is simple. It's a laugh and a kiss, it's a drink and a slip.


**If I Call You Pretty**

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**Disclaimer: **Disney owns Hannah Montana.

**A/N: **A oneshot for now because this is what boredom creates.

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**Mikayla's POV**

As days go by, there are events and people that continuously create the person I become. Slowly, the warmth is taken away and a coldness resides in a tired heart. I can close my eyes to the world and wish things had been different, but the truth is, I have lost to something darker than night.

I travel the city streets and watch bright yellow taxicabs drive by me. People on the roads hold out their hands, signaling for rides, for a safe way home. I wish sometimes to follow them, to smile and know I can trust a strange driver for a moment's journey. But I've been raised differently, raised to look away from others and rely on only myself. Because what can they bring to me, but more lies? More moments to regret when they eventually walk away and when their own coldness seeps out to add a touch more of the iciness that I am already infected with.

Where are you going? What's your destination? Do you have the means to get there? What plans have you made? What if you miscalculate?

What then?

Then you get out of the moving vehicle and you walk as many miles as it takes to atone for your mistakes.

Every moment is a moment to regret when you're not content. The only escape is simple. It's a laugh and a kiss, it's a drink and a slip. A slip of judgment, a slip of thought, a loss of responsibility and momentum in action. It's a night with someone easy and a day with something warm. Warm like coffee after the sun rises and the person leaves.

I take steps to ensure my escape and enter The Delancey. A luxurious bar that sits right in the middle of the city, welcoming all of us who begin living when the sun goes down. I show a bouncer my ID, but he knows my face like I know his brawn. He smiles and waves me past him until the inner doors shut and lock the real world out to one of a smoky aroma.

The lights are dim and the floor is wood. Mahogany countertops and sturdy stools. Red leather couches and black comfy booths. My feet are quiet as I drift across the room, walking further and further until I'm found by my usual spot. It takes me in like I never left and I wish I could light up, but the smoker's lounge is on the other floor.

"The regular?" The barkeeper asks and I set down a ten to give him the go ahead. My drink is nothing special, just a bottle of Coors to keep me company, to start the buzz until something better comes along.

Two hours have to pass with too many drinks in between before I feel lonely enough to look around. I see men who see me. They sit like lions, predators and they wait, wait for me to show interest or at least incompetence before they spring. I see other women, preyed upon and preying too. Just as vicious, no mercy from either sex.

And that's what I like. The truth, plain and simple. No pretenses, no teetering the boundaries, it's all primal and savage because we have no judgment, just tequila and liquor, or wine and beer. Some like scotch and others choose vodka, shots and shots until all left are blurry faces and capable hands.

Yet on some nights, it's nice to walk the line, to not know what the outcome will be. The risks are fun because rejection is a chance and chances are hard to come by.

Sitting at her booth, she's out of my reach. If I could see the future, I would taste her lips and feel her curves. I'm most intrigued by the dark-haired guy chatting her up, leaning in too close for comfort as his arm slinks its way over her shoulders. But this is the problem, she's sober and he's not.

She's taking long gulps of some strong cocktail on ice with a twist. Her face contorts and her jaw tightens with each drink and he grins, steadily ordering her refills. He knows what he wants and it's her. She doesn't know what she wants, it might be him or it might be me.

With a chance like that, I'm mesmerized by the rejection, by the outcome of what may be and what can be, what will and what won't.

"Are you gonna keep it in your pants or send her a drink?" A waitress named Raina asks. She's worked here for two months. That Hawaiian complexion and exotic figure both ensuring she keeps her job in a place like this.

"A girl like her," I say, not taking my eyes off the blue-eyed beauty. "Doesn't belong here."

"And you do?"

I scoff at that and take a lingering sip of my beer. "No, not tonight. Tonight I belong in her sheets."

"She's drinking a Caipirinha, made with Brazilian rum and I doubt she likes it," Raina surmises from studying the girl.

"She's more my style, a light beer or glass of vodka mixed with coke. Send her one for me, will you? Tell her it's from someone interested and more interesting."

With a new energy to her step, Raina fixes the drink and carries it over, enjoying this exchange in secret.

I can't keep my eyes off the catastrophe playing out. Her dark-haired beau hears Raina's message and his eyes become fire, like a volcano ready to erupt at the thought of any single person interfering with his plans.

The girl looks struck, like it never crossed her mind that another person could swoop down and throw in such a surprise. Together, they both glance around, different emotions playing over their faces, from his anger to her delight. She's flattered, he's flattened.

Raina returns behind the counter and replaces my near finished beer with a fresh one.

"He looks like he's gonna blow his top," she says excitedly. Ever the drama-lover, she leans over the counter and can't help but ask. "What now?"

"Now we wait. We let it fester like a disease in his mind, spread until his lust is contaminated with doubt. Doubt one little action created," I say, my eyes twinkling. "And he'll forget to charm her and try to convince her; there's a difference and any girl can tell."

"Why have we never slept together?" Raina asks as if seduced herself by my shady tactics.

"Ring finger," I remind her, chuckling. "If you weren't engaged, I surely would have tried."

"Right," she murmurs to herself and begins stacking a pyramid of old-fashioned bar glasses.

No one seems happy in this place and I can't help but laugh as I keep drinking. We come here and gain so little, yet still find it addicting.

The girl continues to search and finally her gaze locks on mine. I wouldn't dare mislead her now and no matter how much I can look into her, she's suddenly aware and extremely discreet.

I want to know if she's smirking or smiling, but she keeps her glass tight against her lips and she leans into her company, talking to him while staring at me. I wonder if she's sending me a message or just curious to see my intentions given away with every minute I remain in my seat.

"Rejection," I finally decide and stand.

Raina stays silent as I pay my bill and look at the time; it's half past eleven.

"Kind of early for me," I sigh and stretch.

"Kayla, turn around."

I do as Raina says to see the girl sitting at the booth, her legs crossed while the dark-haired guy slips into his jacket and says what seems like goodnight.

Her blue eyes strike a certain cord in me, one of mysterious intrigue as he exits and she nods, signaling that I come over.

"You're in trouble now," Raina coos and I can't help but feel she's right.

My hand searches for the beer behind me, anything to occupy my focus before I inhale and give in. She's not more than twenty feet away, but it feels like miles as I walk and without waiting for invitation, I slide into the booth, sitting across from her.

"You sent me the drink, right?" she asks, her voice a rich, husky tone that left little to wonder of what her whispers would sound like.

"You didn't seem pleased with your rum cocktail thing, thought you might enjoy something simpler."

The half-smile she offers me promises an interesting turn.

"There's nothing simple about you sending me a drink."

"Because now you think I want something," I say, earning a nod. I look her over to study the long leather boots and the small skirt. Her legs are something of a model's and I stare with no reservation. Her white blouse is decent and over it she wears a stylish red cropped jacket.

"You like poetry?" I ask, returning my gaze to her knowing one.

"As much as the next girl."

"I want all of your clothes on my bedroom floor, with you and I pressed up against the closest door."

I lean forward and smirk from the way she bites her lip.

"You don't leave much to interpretation, do you?" she asks.

"Wouldn't want to send you the wrong message."

"Maybe I'm slow and need a few more lines get on board."

I lean back.

"Or maybe if I call you pretty, you'll allow me into your bed and maybe if I whisper sweet-nothings, you'll let me between your legs."

"Are you always this brazen?" she laughs, but I don't miss the way her legs close tighter.

"Would you prefer if I give you an hour of small talk and try to get you drunk or come out with what I want while you're still sober? While you can still enjoy yourself."

She's silent for a moment, studying her drink before she studies me. I'm a plain white tee and black jeans. I'm boots with buckles and a charcoal jacket with silver zippers. I'm a slow smile and onyx eyes.

She downs the rest of her drink. "I live five minutes from here."

And five minutes later, she's opening her apartment door and I'm closing it. She's shrugging out of her jacket and I'm slipping out of mine. She's taking steps backward and I'm taking them forward.

She pauses at her bedroom door and I halt, tilting my head in question. She kicks off her boots and I do the same.

"I don't know your name," she realizes and I grin, closing in on her.

My restless hands find the zipper of her skirt and tug. I drag her top off and holding her hips tight in place, I kiss her. It's hard and real, skin pressing skin. I feel every angle of her face, her jaw, set and firm as her lips work with mine. I taste the rum and vodka, the lime and corruption.

I taste a night I won't regret. A night like all the others.


End file.
